


Glistening

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Beginnings, Eventual Happy Ending, First Time, Hot Tub, Infidelity, M/M, Not a good story for Mary, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is Manipulative, irrelevant case fic, reckless behaviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-16 06:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15431340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Sherlock sees something he wants.So he goes after it.++Sherlock seemed dismissive of John's weak protest. "Grab whatever you like," he teased, his grin and raised eyebrow leaving nothing to the imagination as he spread his arms in what could only be an inviting challenge.





	Glistening

There was an assortment of visitors and guests and staff working the ground floor resort area located far outside London - a bar and lounge inside with stage off to one side for absurdly untalented top forty performers who would take predictable requests and work the slow dance songs in every four or five numbers. Outdoor, there was a hot tub, lazy river, pool with swim-up wet bar, couples gazebo areas, and a shaded, covered lounge area. Sherlock surveyed the smattering of people and dismissed most. Boring. Tedious. Annoying. Bland. Until he settled his sights on one couple here that at least prompted a few minutes of observing. Sherlock could tell things weren’t coming up roses, they weren’t happy, they weren’t a sappy couple on a romance novel, they were more like those stunned couples on crap telly reality shows. They were more like done and _done_. Biding their time. Unhappy to the core. Marriage on the skids, it was a last-ditch desperate attempt on his part, a concession on hers, being here at all. The outcome of the weekend was already written on both of their faces, his light brown hair (probably went golden sandy in the right sunny climate) overtop the resignation of defeat; he knew her already-made-up mind - thanks but no thanks. Her own short blond hair, cropped along the sides, one of _I went on your bloody weekend away and it changed nothing. See, I told you so?_

The hotel was about half capacity, with him there staking out a suspect (boring, hadn’t arrived, and he already knew the outcome but needed proof) and had come to a corner of the pool area to survey the place and wait. Word on the street was the suspect lured his victims from poolside cabana bars, subjected them to a laced beverage somehow, helped them back to their rooms, and then helped himself to their identities. The suspect arrived, disrupting Sherlock from the rest of his musings. _Always something_ , he concluded, as it was not a suspect but _suspects_  actually, unexpectedly working in pairs. He was momentarily distracted at the revelation, and Sherlock watched as the duo proceeded to do the standard approach, create a small diversion, lace the drink, act compassionate. Boring, solved. He watched a few minutes, sent a text to the local DI, and almost couldn’t be arsed to watch them intervene, taking the subject out quietly with minimal fuss.

Bored.

He turned to scope out the scene again. This couple, on the other hand, still not boring. She was a nothing, a snip of a woman, a shrewish malcontent. Only staying with him out of spite. And perhaps motivated by something else, finances or an equal irrelevant stimuli, but he couldn’t be sure what yet. It wasn’t like the man had money to speak of. In all probability it didn't matter.

The man, the man, the _man_. Oh, yes, there were outdated clothes, worn, battered hat, scuffed sandals, a hand-me-down mobile. But these still waters ran deep, kept something hidden too. From his position, he could see much, could notice that he looked up occasionally to watch the bikini-clad women pass in front of them, and Sherlock was blessed with enough visual acuity and angle of observation that he could see him check out the women as they did. But it was only a passing admiration, an I'm-not-dead-yet appreciation. And so when one of the lifeguard staff - a fit, young man recently just out of university - passed in front of him, Sherlock made it his business to again watch the man’s eye, the gaze, the tracking. He checked out the man even moreso than the woman, and it gave Sherlock pause, opening his mind to the idea beyond mere casual interest. The appraisal continued. His dark eyes gave away much - his bisexuality, his compassion, his need vibrating, ready for stoking, ready for excitement and adventure. And barely masked by his unhappiness. Sadness and fatigue about the eyes even when attempting small talk - shot down almost every time from his, given their jewelry, wife, he should bloody give up - or relating casually and without agenda to the barmaid and twice to another person nearby.

The unhappiness seemed to be the surface emotion, the expression most visible on his face. That is, Sherlock watched with a renewed interest, until he lowered himself into the hot tub at the near end of the pool, and there was peace, relaxation, and escape as his features morphed into Adonis. In his bland, non-descript swim trunks, he sank into the water and, from under the covered lounge, Sherlock had to sit up straighter to see him. His shoulders bunched and then stretched under the water, scar visible - interesting, definitely a story behind that injury - and muscles rippled under toned skin. Small paunch about the gut, but a recent addition, Sherlock could tell, based on swim trunk size and the fact that he brushed his hand over it self-consciously until he’d immersed. The hot tub somehow took a few years off his life by adding youth to his expression, the comfort almost palpable to watch, and the mist swirling up around his hair, darkening and taming it.

Sunlight caught the sheen of water on his shoulder, an errant splash of water from the jets sparkling and popping, leaving a chlorinated speckle, a kiss, a touch that lingered. Heat from the steaming water circled, clung, rose, dampening his lighter sun-kissed hair from blond to deep brown, golden to bronzed, dry to sultry, begging for a touch, a brush, a caress. The steam bubbled and clung to his skin as well. On the scarred shoulder, the deltoid rippled, blazing, glittering, wet. The man ducked farther into the water, to his chin, and then rose again, starting the process all over again with an entire covering of his upper torso with a wall of water that radiated, glowed, beckoned.

With closed eyes, the man seemed to be practicing biofeedback, a deep breath, deliberate chest expansion, arching upward toward the sun, allowing his body to relax within the hot water. Sherlock watched as some of the tension on his face seemed to dissipate. The man spread out both arms so that they rested lightly along the edge of the tub, his wing span confidently taking up space, staking a claim, asserting his presence. It was delicious.

Sherlock could feel his chest tighten in response. He admired, he _wanted_.

Sherlock drew a somewhat surprised, catchy breath at the vision. Muscles, delineated, firm, politely rounded, twitched in the sun, both arms faintly tanned, working arms, deltoid, triceps, the cords at the elbow, strong forearms. Soft, darker, slightly curly hair at both axilla peeked through, masculine. Sherlock felt an inane desire to touch there, that intimate sensitive area, to explore, burrow, and _taste._

The appeal surprised him, the physical attributes of the man and the interesting expressive eyes to the obvious searching of the man, searching for connection. In unusual inward honesty, he admitted to himself that he wanted him badly. Wanted in a visceral way he hadn’t felt since coming clean off the drugs, wanted him with alarming fervor, and mindlessly stared from his corner of the patio area. His eyes took in the female seated in a reclining pool lounge chair quite close, the competition, the obstacle. She could be removed, and he thought of seven ways to do it almost immediately, with only four involving injury with the possibility of death. He probably wouldn’t like that, he reasoned, and considered other non-violent means.  

He needn’t have concerned himself, as it became rather apparent that she would require little encouragement to leave. The mobile that was more often in her hand than in her bag seemed to take on power of its own - incoming calls, her animated response, laughing with the unseen caller on the other end, the consulting of a day planner, ostensibly a business call from time to time, but more than that as well. The mobile certainly received more attention than her current partner, to be sure. The glance at her companion - apologetic, resigned, non-negotiable - seemed to indicate that she was already planning her exit. The news did not go over well, and his displeasure was initially enough to apparently alter her immediate plans, and she spoke to the mobile, tucked it back in her bag with a stubborn displeased set to her angular face. For the moment, it seemed, she’d given in albeit reluctantly.

Sherlock took a closer seat to them, keeping carefully within hearing range but with his back to their backs. His beverage from the bar, something clear and non-alcoholic with lime in it, kept him from too obviously staring at the surroundings while keeping an ear attuned to the couple over his shoulder. They were silent, and not too much time went by before the man exited the jacuzzi, drying off briefly, disappeared into the hallway, and Sherlock watched with dry mouth and tingling skin as the man toweled off his hair before entering the loo.

Her blond hair caught the sunlight, but on her it looked nothing like a halo. The man could do much better. Sherlock sighed, realising that he needed to get rid of her if he wanted any chance to act on his craving.

Summoning his nerve and his creativity, he approached and interrupted the woman, introduced himself with a bogus name, obtained her own real one. He started a quick conversation about her favourite topic (herself, of that he already knew to be true), said he personally was there at the resort to get away from his demanding business, and in just over ninety seconds, he had enough information that would almost certainly facilitate his connivings, his scheme, his longings. He was still shocked at how trusting people could be, divulging details that could then be used by someone such as himself in order to have them summoned away, removed, back to work. Pitifully easy.

The man returned carrying a water bottle and a small plate of crudites for them to share, for which Sherlock was grateful as it held his attention and allowed Sherlock to make his own escape without even a glance.

The woman’s countenance changed quite readily as the man offered both to her, and she shook her head with a frown, her disdain obvious. The bitterness in her expression left a harshness, a cold edge, as she was borderline rude with her reaction. Neither of them watched Sherlock leave, locate a corner of the lobby and then from his own mobile, call the front desk to leave a message for one guest, a Mary Morstan, that spoke vaguely of an urgent need - that would require her physical presence and left enough of a believable urgency that Sherlock was fairly certain she would pounce upon the opportunity to leave.

None of the residents at the pool, lounge, or entire first floor except Sherlock were even remotely paying attention when a front desk clerk arrived, asked a few of the employees for directions while holding a folded paper. No one else would have bothered to even pay attention to a pointing finger, a head nod, or a message being delivered. Sherlock, however, paid close attention, discreetly, as the woman grew animated, stood, said a few heated sentences to the man, and then picked up her belongings, gathering everything quickly into her bag, and stalked off, deserting the clearly disappointed man there at the hotel pool.

Disgusted, the man sipped at the water, then rose quickly to bin the snack - purchased then, obviously for the ungrateful and unappreciative woman - and Sherlock thought for a moment he might leave poolside too. Instead, he returned to the bubbling hot tub. He closed his eyes in the escapism of the bubbles, the chlorinated comfort, the soothing heat. His restless energy seemed to be somewhat at least temporarily to be assuaged by the jacuzzi, the noise, the jets, the turbulence of the water that must have mirrored his own inner turmoil.

Sherlock's wait was not long until he saw the elevator doors open and the woman emerge with two small suitcases and her own personal work bag that had been with her earlier at the pool. A flicker of guilt - or was it relief? - crossed her features as she gazed across the lobby to where her husband was still reclining, eyes closed, in the water. He could see the muscles in her jaw clench as she stood tall, bags in hand, and then came over to him to speak a brief sentence. The man opened an eye, spoke the word 'fine' which was quite easily lip-read from Sherlock's vantage point. Another brief exchange, unpleasant, business-like. He watched her cross resolutely to the front desk to ostensibly turn in her keycard. Sherlock watched, then moved his position discreetly to see the front lobby door, saw her summon a cab, and minutes later be whisked away.

Though there was a faint twinge of guilt for his machinations, he smiled slightly as he continued to watch. Predatory eyes watched carefully, keeping his glistening prey within sight.

++

A quick internet search and a few texts later, and the rest of the plan was set in motion. He’d simply approached the front desk, quickly obtained vital information (from a foolish and inattentive clerk who fell for each morsel of bait he dropped). The man he now knew as John Watson was quite discoverable, a physician from London, a retired Captain with an honourable medical discharge from army service. John Watson left the jacuzzi again, ordered a light meal - a sandwich and crisps, a draft beer,  _so pedestrian,_ which he ate only a small portion thereof. Then, still with annoyance festering just under the surface, he seemed to melt back into the hot tub, John stretched, flexed, submerged, and repositioned his body in the jets of the hot water, the post-prandial relaxation of a GI tract in full operation, alcohol-enhanced vasodilation (though he didn't even finish half of the beer), potential hypotension, venous pooling with an increased core temperature. He blatantly ignored the "please limit spa use to less than thirty-minutes" sign.

Sherlock opted to bide his time, waiting and enjoying the view. He knew the man would leave the pool area eventually, and it didn’t take long for things to devolve, for the man to grow restless now that he was indeed alone at the hotel. A family arrived, raucous children in tow, jumping and splashing, running unchecked, jumping on lounge chairs. _Squealing._  Sherlock scowled at them a few times, and correctly predicted John Watson, with his predilection for military order and obedience (in others anyway, given his own ignoring of the posted rule regarding time), would find the pool and jacuzzi area no longer relaxing. It took just under four minutes and was directly precipitated by one of the older children who threatened to do a cannonball into the hot tub. John exited rather abruptly, and judging by the running leap and the child's body flying into the water, it was just in time.

Once outside and a safe distance away, John toweled off, oblivious to the fact that he was being noticed, admired and speculated about. He smartly snapped his towel around him, tucking an end along his trunks. Military, down-to-business, no movements wasted, shoulder was still residually stiff but the hot water therapy helped. Probably, Sherlock realised, after his injury, he had only done physio long enough to get minimal mobility restored. Had the man kept at it, there might have been additional healing and function. Pity. He checked his mobile for the time, did a bit of calculating and predicting, then set an alarm for eleven minutes.

The mobile was just ready to ring off when Sherlock reset it, strode down the narrow hallway to the room John would just now, almost certainly, just be stepping out of the shower. Not hidden behind clothing yet, not yet relaxed and laying down, more liable to submit to Sherlock's upcoming request with minimal fuss. There might be a hotel dressing gown involved, and if not, Sherlock had that covered as well, having requested a second to be delivered to his penthouse suite. He'd already requested a few other preparations as well. The robes were trivial. It mattered not, specifically, but he would be, hopefully soon, enjoying the view of this man, this object of his attention, both in the dressing gown, and then out of it as well.

He rapped smartly on the door. Paused. Rapped again. Didn’t think he’d miscalculated, heard movement from within, the telly either turned off or muted, then the chain removed, the door opened.

“Dr. Watson?”

He only inclined his head, checked the hallway in both directions - high alert, then, remnants of military leadership and training - and let his eyes come back to the taller man who had knocked.

“If you would follow me, please.” Sherlock pointed a well-dressed arm down the hallway and raised an eyebrow expectantly at John.

"What?" John snorted a laugh as if he'd surely misunderstood. "No."

"Come along, Dr. Watson."

"If there's a medical problem, call the front desk. Or an ambulance."

"No, it's nothing like that." Sherlock gestured with his head at the hallway, unruffled. "There is a matter of some urgency I wish to ... _discuss_ with you." A playfulness about his eyes, tone, and smile seemed to be issuing a challenge, John thought. The game apparently was quite _on._

With a slightly incredulous grin, John frowned. "Is that some sort of pick up line?"

Sherlock's eyebrows wriggled. "Is it working?"

Head tipped to the side a mite, John scowled in some confusion. "How do you even know my name?"

"I make it my business to know things." He made a point to smile enigmatically, intriguingly. "If you would, please." And he stepped back just a little to allow room for John.

Who frowned at him from behind the short hotel robe about his body, another towel (thinner, economy grade) about his head, where he was just fluffing about to dry his hair. "God no. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the one responsible for assuring you're here by yourself."

John smirked, his lips twitching, as he held back the negative thoughts from becoming verbalised. Sherlock saw, wondered why he even bothered given that all of it was quite readable on his face.

"Which leaves you free tonight. To do whatever you wish, with whomever you choose."

John's eyes locked on Sherlock, then slowly lowered, taking in the curls, the shoulders, the trim build, the polish. The play, the banter, was peacefully unrushed. "Oh? I suppose you have a recommendation, then?" His face said, _Okay, I'll play along for a moment._

"Of course. With me. I'm the one capable of giving you a night you'll never forget."

John laughed as if that were the most humorous thing he'd ever heard. "No, seriously, where's the camera. This is for one of those shows, right?"

"Oh, I assure you, it is not." Sherlock knew at the moment, John would be taking in their polar opposite positions - he in a robe and little else, working mans hands, strong and capable, freshly showered, a few scars in addition to the big one on his upper chest. He was, by all appearances, sturdy and uncomplicated on the surface. On the other hand, Sherlock in bespoke trousers, tailored shirt with rolled up sleeves, expensive shoes, product-styled hair in rumpled perfection slightly windblown from being outdoors, lean and toned body habitus, nails trimmed and lightly buffed.

John, still intrigued, crossed his arms in front of him. "I'm sorry, missed your name." For the moment, John was intending to stand his ground. 

It pleased Sherlock to no end that he was giving token resistance. "Come along, Dr. Watson. Captain Watson, if you prefer."

"Retired. And piss off." John's perception of the disparity between them was showing, as he looped the damp towel about his neck, pulling the robe tighter. He gave a brief finger-comb of his slightly unruly hair, settling it into some semblance of order. His hand tightened on the doorknob, and for a moment it seemed that he was quite ready to pull it closed with himself on the inside.

"Name's Sherlock Holmes." The door stayed open, though Sherlock was ready and interested enough that he would have slung out his foot quickly to intercept the door to prevent it from closing. Sherlock extended a hand, which John shook, gave a somewhat scathing glance into John's room. "I wasn't necessarily looking to join you here." A glance inside the room, and Sherlock shook his head. "I'd prefer you to accompany me." He smiled, feeling very much on his game. "You've nothing else on tonight."

John must have hedged just a bit, vacillating, or at the very least intrigued enough to not slam the door in his face. “Not without an explanation.”

Sherlock was pleased but hid his smile, as this wasn’t a no. “I saw you at the pool, in the hot tub.”

Hands swung a bit wide, away from John’s body, as if to imply a non-verbalised query, ‘so what?’

"Do you actually _need_ an explanation?" Sherlock spoke quietly, knowing his voice and glance were likely pretty clear. He licked his own lip watching John's eyes drawn to it, smiled a bit when John realised the direction of his gaze. Wryly, he said, “I liked what I saw.” Sherlock could see a bit of emotion - annoyance, arrogance, desire - flicker in John’s eye. The chase, the thrill, was abuzz between them. Not wrong, then, he _was_ interested. “And I got rid of your wife.”

John kept quiet, though the fact that the relationship was not a good one apparent in his scowl. “Willingly,” he said then, “I’m sure.”

“Because I wanted you all to myself.”

"You realise I'm not ... exactly _free_."

"I. Wanted. _You_." He’d been intending on a low, serious, quiet confession, and was even a little bit surprised at the raw emotion he could hear in his own voice. "The water was hitting you just so, your shoulders were ..." He seemed to give himself a mental shake, snapping his lips together again, but the smokiness in his eyes revealed how much he'd enjoyed the view.

John tilted his head, teeth nibbling absently on his lower lip and frowning mildly as he wondered at this strange turn of events. The gentleman in the hallway seemed unusual, but John was doing some looking of his own, finding his taller appearance to be rather striking, and the offer, well,  _Why the hell not?_ he thought, then looked sharply at Sherlock hoping he hadn't spoken it aloud. Sherlock could see his decision on his face. There was a surrender to the man, then, a resignation and fatalistic gesture that he didn’t particularly care one way or another. Opening the door wider, he stepped back as if to allow Sherlock to enter.

Sherlock didn't budge an iota. “I believe I had requested for _you to follow me_.”

“And yet here we both are.” John could summon some internal stubbornness, to be sure.

Skeptical, Sherlock grinned a bit. “My rooms, my suite, may be more suitable. I have the penthouse. I believe you’ll find it a little bit more ... roomy and comfortable there. Seems a shame to let it go to waste.”

John hedged then. "I should grab my ..."

"Clothes will be quite optional." John stared hard, and Sherlock clarified, "In case there was still any confusion about my intentions."

"Then you're quite overdressed, aren't you?"

"All in good time." Sherlock seemed dismissive at John's weak protest. "But grab whatever you like." His grin as well as the raised eyebrow left nothing to the imagination as he spread his arms in what could only be an inviting challenge, and John pretended to briefly consider lunging, grabbing, at the man.

Instead, he turned back into his room, leaving Sherlock in the hallway. He grabbed his mobile, charger, wallet, and key card, all of which went into the robe pocket, and he shouldered his courage. John hesitated by his case. "I don't have any," and his cheeks coloured. "Any, uh ... I didn't bring any ..."

"Protection. For a physician, you are surprisingly indirect." Sherlock raised a brow. "My rooms are well stocked, I'm sure, with whatever we may find necessary. Or I can obtain almost anything. Including thicker towels, a longer robe." The grin seemed deliberate and Sherlock reveled in John's momentary discomfort and seized the opportunity to turn up the heat. "I believe this would include condoms and lubricant if needed. Is there more that you will be wanting?"

"No." He cleared his throat a bit, his eyes dark as he looked at Sherlock. "That's fine, I'm ... No, I'm sure." His fragmented sentences trailed off and he looked away, fidgeting.

"You don't mind traipsing about the halls in a robe?" Sherlock questioned, shortening his stride a bit to facilitate falling into step beside him as they made their way down the hall toward the lift.

"Are you suggesting I should have dressed, or that I lose the robe?"

"The latter, of course." Sherlock grinned at John's suggestive tone. "Perhaps I am. But I doubt you're much of an exhibitionist."

"On what do you base that claim?"

Sherlock slid his own key card into the unmarked lift car panel at the end of the hall. Restricted access, then. John hadn't even noticed it before that moment. "I watched you today, remember? Plain, neutral coloured swim trunks. I saw that you were most comfortable when the water was up over your scar. I saw your hand across your waistline - which is completely fine, by the way, and quite normal for your age you realise - as if you were trying to hide it and that it is relatively recent. Stress eating, midlife change, relationship issues. Even your hairstyle gives that conservative feel to it. I could go on."

"No, that's ... enough."

"That said, please feel free to drop the robe if you'd like. I'm fairly certain the hotel staff won't bother us."

"So you come here often?" The doors opened, and they got in. There was only one button that lit up once Sherlock tapped it.

"No, never been here before, but earlier today I solved the problem they were having with ..." and he explained briefly the ruse, the identity theft, the pair working the facility, the deceptiveness.

"So you're a consulting detective, you say?"

"Yes. The best there is."

"You told me you were the only one."

"Yes, I am --"

"So when you say you're the only, you are also the best by default. In your category of one."

Sherlock's lips thinned out at John's statement, his feistiness. "Perhaps. You may have a point there." Two smiles appeared, and Sherlock lobbed another defense. "The case I solved today was one of identity theft, has defied local law enforcement for months now. They brought me in this morning, gave me carte blanche with records and such. Figured it out while at the hotel pool."

"Carte blanche."

"Penthouse, yes. Other expenses." He again looked pointedly at John with appreciation. "And I still found time to enjoy some other sights while I was here. Interestingly enough."

John bit his lip under Sherlock's direct stare, and changed the subject. "They must be grateful, that you figured it out."

"Solved. It was quite simple, really. Seeing and observing." 

"That's amazing."

Sherlock gawped. "That's not what people usually say."

"Which is, what, we'd appreciate it if your friend would put his robe back on?"

Sherlock smiled, glancing at John with admiration as the lift door opened. "Or took it all the way off."

John smiled, feeling remarkably refreshed and alive. "Private hallway?"

"Penthouse. Yes, this whole floor is just ours ..." and his voice trailed off as John loosened the belt and then removed the robe, hooking a finger in it and letting it hang casually over his shoulder. It left his body completely exposed save the few inches down his back where the robe just barely covered.

"Problem?" John looked confidently, straight back at him, daring him to comment.

"Only perhaps some discomfort due to a sudden tightening of my trousers."

"It's likely I can help you with your inopportune ... predicament."

"Seriously? Predicament."

Despite not saying the word on purpose, he found that final word somewhat funny as did Sherlock as he emphasised the second syllable and popped the final consonant sound as well, the suite key beeping in the door. "Wow, very posh," John said as the door swung in to reveal an expansive suite. There were several rooms decorated tastefully in golden tones with burgundy and wood, ornate furnishings, lush just as he'd said.

Inside the doorway, Sherlock turned quiet eyes to John, an electric connection, desire evident on his face along with a careful consideration of his next actions. Bringing one hand up alongside John's jaw, he eased their heads toward each other, his lips brushing lightly over John's. Gentle graze, then again, firmer. Their breath, a puff of air, heated. Sherlock growled low in his throat, a sound of claiming territory and of satisfaction, whispering, "Very nice." Another nibble, tongues and lips and hot breath.

Sherlock's head started to draw away, and John dropped the robe, bringing both his hands up to prevent Sherlock's retreat. With a strong hand behind Sherlock's neck, the other on his side under his arm, he roughly brought them closer once again. His voice was also low. "Not yet." Their lips touched, John's tongue reaching out with fervor to part Sherlock's, dipping inside to taste, stake his claim. Angling his head, he loosened his grip on Sherlock, who stayed quite where he was, ta very much, and the kiss combusted, chests pressing, backs arching, the want and need quite evident as John's erection seemed a heat-seeking missile, brushing against Sherlock's trousers and the hardness beneath the zipper.

"As you just said, not yet." Mutually they parted, eyes dark, anticipating more but both willing to take a step back. 

With more composure than he was feeling, John shrugged, snatched the robe from the heap on the floor and slung it over his shoulders again, where it fell and draped over him. Most of him anyway, covering one side completely and the turgidness between his legs. "Sure."

Sherlock removed his shoes, socks, unbuttoned another shirt button, then turned back to John as he began speaking again. "The private terrace is through there," he said with an angle of his head. John smiled, tentatively heading that direction. The full-length glass doors opened out to a small rooftop patio, with tastefully overgrown foliage, two reclining, upholstered chairs, a small cafe table. It was a completely private, secluded haven.

Holding two bottles of water, Sherlock followed him out. "You don't mind if I stay as I am for a few moments?" John seemed quiet as he shrugged, draping his robe over where he'd be sitting. His body was still partially exposed while Sherlock remained fully clothed but for his feet. The chair supported him, the lighting indirect, muted, through the highly polished wooden trestles overhead. Sherlock added, "I thought that maybe drawing this out a bit might be advisable." His brow quirked as did the right side of his mouth. "And more fun."

John took a long pull of the water. "Fine. Though I do feel as if I'm the mouse and you're the cat toying with his next meal."

Smiling, Sherlock made no effort to hide that he looked square at John, his eyes and then downward, enjoying, appreciating. As his glance fell to John's waist, pelvis, he said quietly, "Interesting word choice, meal."

John's penis twitched, thickened, twitched again. It was both disconcerting and flattering to be scrutinised such as what Sherlock was doing. _Admired._ The sensation of fresh air, a slight breeze on their small terrace was freeing as well, and John could feel the power dynamic between them, him unclothed but having an offensive advantage, a control of their positions, of Sherlock's interest. Bending a knee, he rested an arm against it, smiled charmingly. "So you want to talk? Get acquainted?"

"That's one way to say it, sure."

"Okay. I have a condition. You have three questions."

"What?"

"You can only ask me three questions."

"And then?"

"Only three. And then it's my turn."

"Fine." Sherlock looked him steadily in the eye, taking his time, inquisitive, intense, studying him. "What factors in your growing up, your formative years, led you to the choice of army surgeon?"

"Okay, so you already know a bit then." With a thoughtful frown, John considered that, his hand touching idly over his mouth, jaw, also unhurried and thoughtful. "Dysfunctional family. Alcoholic father, unpredictable with a mean streak, my older sister in and out of rehab perpetually. Mum, god rest her soul, well, she was unhappy all her life I think, was so proud when my plans began to take shape. When I enlisted, she was over the moon." Sherlock remained steadily watching him. "And me, I think the order, the predictability, expectations - it seemed to good to be true."

"That explains the army, not necessarily medicine. Surgery, specifically."

"A calling. To remove suffering."

"Sometimes suffering cannot be removed no matter the procedure. Such as your own." John kept his face inscrutable. With a wry squint, Sherlock seemed skeptical at John's nonresponsiveness. "For you," he said after a moment, "it's as much about orderliness, about being in control, about superior hand-eye coordination. Rigid precision."

John listened, and then nodded his head in agreement, "I suppose, yes to all of that." 

Sherlock tapped a finger against his chin as he seemed to be searching for the next thing he wanted to ask. "If you and Mary are that unhappy together, why did you even bother coming here?"

"You don't mince words, do you."

"This was your idea."

"And you go for the kill shot."

"You will quickly learn not to underestimate me."

John scowled, jaws tightening wordlessly for a moment as he breathed, once, twice. "How do you know her name?"

There was a tsk sound several times as Sherlock smiled. "My turn to ask the questions. Not yours." John could feel all of himself bristle, and he looked away, quite displeased, thinking this evening, this daring behaviour had been a bad idea. Briefly he thought of getting up, leaving, storming out, the sense of being played grating on him. The question seemed too personal, too intrusive, and they both realised it. Looking to save the moment, Sherlock realised that rather than to crossing a line any further, he should opt for mitigating the damage by answering John's question. "I asked her, introduced myself is all. Most people, Mary included, love to talk about themselves. A little interest whether it be real or contrived, and it's easy to get information. You were ordering food at the time." John's shoulders eased down, still clearly unhappy at the question, the topic, the reminder. Sherlock gentled, his posture softer, toned down the direction of their conversation. "So, I could choose a different question I suppose. If you're refusing this one."

John shook his head slightly, frowning but realising that if they were there in Sherlock's suite and knowing their intentions, the destination, the question wasn't perhaps all that inappropriate. "We're on the outs, been so for a long time. I asked her for a weekend away, together, before she completely bailed on me. Last ditch effort I suppose. Unsalvageable, obviously. Flat is in her name, so I wasn't looking to get thrown out without at least attempting to work things out."

"You are also looking for absolution of your own role in the demise of your marriage."

"Beg pardon?" 

Sherlock leaned closer, not offering any further explanation on the bold statement. "I suppose she didn't know you were bisexual when you married, then."

"Are you always this offensive?"

"Truth can be offensive. I'm not hired for my charm."

"Damned straight. Charming, you are not!"

"I can be when I want something."

"Being a bloody wanker, though, not helpful."

"If you find the truth of my observations hard, consider that I observed you." John bit his lip slightly, feeling the heat of Sherlock's gaze, the power of his bright eyes. "And I quite liked what I saw." His voice changed, slowed, dripping and melting with honeyed words. "I wasn't saying, by the way, that assigning unequal blame is an issue. It's a good perspective, when looking back, to be able to assure yourself that you tried, and that there is no regret." John let an inhale settle him down as Sherlock's tone softened even more. "Absolution, as I said. You were willing, made an effort, you tried."

He shrugged as Sherlock continued to watch him, his mannerisms, his body, his eyes. "I suppose I would agree with that, too. Because it is most definitely over." His whisper was mostly devoid of emotion, simply the statement of fact.

"We'll go a little less personal, then. Tell me the story of your shoulder wound."

John considered Sherlock's delivery, those pale eyes trying to take in every nuance of John's responses. "No." John's gaze was riveted on Sherlock's face as he refused. Both were simultaneously quite focused and amused.

"You're being rather uncooperative, Dr. Watson." Sherlock again raised an eyebrow, displeased. "I should think you have to answer."

" _That_ was not a question. This is your third question, so you need to ask it properly." A faint blush of colour appeared on Sherlock's face. "Just as I thought, you were going to be deceitful, try to get in a fourth. On a technicality." John's mood had lightened again, and he smiled at Sherlock's mock horror at being caught.

The brief glance down told John he was right, and Sherlock nodded, impressed. "Surgical precision, attention to detail, must be some of your strongest skills."

"Would you want a surgeon who deviated from procedure?" John parried, taking another drink of water. "With less than exact technique?"

Sherlock smiled again, the warmth going all the way to his eyes. "Do you want something stronger than that to drink?"

"Not yet, thanks." John cast a glance at him, his own smile one of amusement. " _That_ might have been your third question, if I were to be a stickler."

"Which you are. But I would have used a word like cretin or cheat."

"I'll give you benefit of the doubt that you didn't intend for that to be one of your three questions."

There was a clenching of Sherlock's jaw in mock irritation. "Would you please tell me the story of your shoulder injury?"

John's voice dropped to a lower register as he recounted the events those few years back, on his second deployment. A rescue mission gone awry, a sniper, senseless killing, many friends lost that day. He glossed over the details, the rehab, the devastation of the lasting damage. "I was one of the lucky ones."

"With a career ending injury? Lucky seems an odd descriptor."

"Survived the septic shock afterward, was lucky to be alive. But yes, some residual nerve damage. Decreased sensation in a few dominant fingers."

"I suppose you've given OT and physio a chance?"

"I did, briefly, but decided I wasn't interested in going back, perhaps always questioning my skills or doubting that the impairment was going to limit me, jeopardise the patient in any way. I'm still practicing, and as a GP I can do simple suturing at the clinic I work at. I've adjusted."

"But it couldn't have been easy for you. Traumatic, actually, I would imagine."

John glanced down, his smile soft and a little sad. Mary had never understood, told him callously that he was overreacting, but here, this man, a stranger (though with amazing insight) was empathetic to how difficult the career change had been on him.

"I do believe you've been given your three questions."

"Indeed."

"Now it's my turn." John licked his lip somewhat nervously, then smiled as he settled on what he was thinking. And pursuing. His voice dropped a bit lower, and he could feel his gut settle as he embraced the decision, the sensuality of the moment, an opportunity for excitement. With a fantastically exciting partner, and he spoke quietly and with much heat behind the words. "And I find I don't want to ask questions." The light from the fading evening sky caught the dark ginger tones of Sherlock's curls as he faced John, alert, watchful, interested. "I do believe I'd like to take you to bed. No more games, no more delays."

"Fine." Sherlock rose, calm, and stood briefly in the open doorway that led from the courtyard where they'd been to the large room. "It's this way." Quiet, bare feet made no noise on the thick carpet across the room to another set of atrium doors.

John stopped short in the doorway as he caught sight of Sherlock's bedroom suite. With a grin, he began to shake his head slightly as he looked full on at the man next to him. "So how did you manage this?"

"A few requests of the concierge, a history of generous tips, and it's not difficult at all."

The room was lit indirectly from corner sconces on the wall, the glow of yellow light making the room seem soft, warm, romantic. A few flameless candles flickered from a wall shelf, the dresser, a piece of sculpture. There were Bose speakers mounted high on one wall, obscurely wafting a smooth orchestral number, low bass and discrete percussion in the background. It was subtle yet soothing music, background fill, relaxing. Most of the center of the room was taken up by a king sized sleigh bed with a tall mattress, soft and thick pillows artfully beckoning from the headboard. The linens, a high thread count of a deep chocolate brown colour, were already turned down in invitation. The nightstand, covered with a silk runner, had a digital charging station clock, a biro and writing tablet, and a small mosaic bowl holding an assortment of condoms in various gold and black wrappers, some sachets, probably lube, underneath. A scented electric candle warmer held a glass candle emitting a vaguely spicy, vanilla sandalwood aroma, something deeply earthy yet mild.

Inhaling deeply, John closed his eyes briefly in enjoyment, savouring. "Good lord, this is really rather nice. I would not have taken you for a romantic." A few steps took him to the foot of the bed, where he ran a finger along the wood, admiring.

"And I had you pegged as one from the moment I saw you purchase snacks for your wife and then bin them when she deserted you. Come to think of it, before that, actually. When you bought her that drink, made sure the paper umbrella was included."

"For what good it did."

"Drinks with paper umbrellas," he echoed, lamenting, with a shake of his head and a frown. "Just, _no."_

"It certainly wasn't worth it."

"Worked well for me. For us." John smirked at Sherlock's words as he crossed to the tray where chocolate pieces, Belgian, with ornate seashell patterns, had been plated on a small table across from the bed. Champagne was chilling, the bottle frosty and cold, two flutes in attendance. "I see," Sherlock offered then, coming to stand near him, then taking and biting one of the chocolates and moaning, "that you aren't denying that you're a romantic."

"No. It's true. And very unexpected coming from you. I don't see you as one."

Sherlock grinned then, holding out the plate for John's perusal and selection. He chose a dark chocolate sea-star. "Will you be wanting flowers too?" Their eyes held as Sherlock offered him the champagne bottle, which he uncorked. The pop was loud in the room.

"I think not."

Sherlock poured two generous glasses, and they clinked them together gently. "What do you want, then, John Watson?"

John's answering grin was finally certain and sure. "For starters," he said, taking a large sip of the bubbly beverage before setting it aside before crossing the room to the thick, pedestal bed, "you can disrobe for me." Naked, his robe trailing on the floor and then left there, he settled on the bed, reclined back against the pillows, crossed his ankles, and placed his hands behind his head, elbows bent and his pose relaxed.

Sherlock didn't move, discovering that it was his turn to be mildly uncomfortable. "Apparently I have made an error."

"Oh?"

"We didn't specify exactly what your turn entailed."

"No, you did not." The chuckle that John'd been trying to contain leaked out then, and Sherlock seemed to relax then. "I would make a jibe about you underestimating me, but I think you just learned that first hand." He tipped his head then, pointing with his chin. "You can start with the belt, I believe. No rushing."

Sherlock's eye narrowed, but his fingers moved to the buckle, his eyes still bright as they looked back at John, puzzled.

John chuckled again. "Stop worrying. There are no elaborate plans. Just a couple of blokes about to have, what were your words, 'a night neither of us will ever forget'?" There was a clunk as the belt was pulled free, dropped, and hit the floor. The buttons on Sherlock's shirt were all freed by deliberate fingers when John seemed to groan a bit, then crooked his finger, beckoning, his patience wearing thin. "God, you're tempting." He wanted to touch, firmly, to hold, to devour.

Sherlock stood still a moment, one hand resting on a trim hip over the belt loops of the trousers clinging to his hips. The shirt fluttered a bit around him, and with a quick twitch, he shrugged his shoulders so that the garment slithered to the floor on it's own. Despite John's directive, he did not yet approach the bed. Again, their eyes met, John's challenging, Sherlock's resistant. "You said no rushing," Sherlock accused.

"So I did. I didn't think you were much of a rule follower." John's gaze was distracted as Sherlock's thumb flicked to his trouser clasp, which he opened and then lowered the zipper. Beneath were form fitting, gray pants, which clung and revealed already an impressive erection. Sizzling between them was an electricity, a current of desire, a connection difficult to ignore. Without conscious thought, John's hand slid to his own groin, wrapping around his own penis and stroked lightly.

Sherlock made a tsk-ing sound and raised one eyebrow at the sight of John's hand moving. "None of that, now." He let the trousers drop to the floor, stepped out of them, and glided to the bed, his hand reaching out to remove John's. He replaced it with his own, stroking once, twice, three times, and then stopping. "I'll take care of that. Very soon."

"God," John breathed. He allowed his hand to be redirected, pressed into the mattress as Sherlock lowered his body against John's. Their weight caused the mattress to dip slightly, and Sherlock's ribs leaned in, mouth opening a bit, coming closer to John and pressing his lips against John's, letting his entire body touch and lean into John's. A groan, an inhale, an incantation, and John's patience snapped the rest of the way.

With an agility remaining from his military days, he grabbed Sherlock by both arms, rolling and twisting them abruptly so that John was on top, shoulder muscles tense, delineated, flexing. The tentative, teasing, hesitant kisses were gone. This kiss was all need, want, demanding and forceful. He nipped lightly at Sherlock's mouth, his lower lip, then pulled away long enough to give them room for Sherlock to scramble out of his pants and be tossed somewhere over the side of the bed.

"There are condoms ..." Sherlock breathed.

"In a minute," John growled, lowering himself again and frotting a bit against Sherlock's hip, his hand reaching around them awkwardly. The room had become quite warm, a faint sheen of perspiration between them.

"Don't wait too long," Sherlock said, pushing at John's chest, holding him up with surprising strength. "I want it tonight, you inside." John returned his gaze, considering the request which was actually more of a demand, and sighing a bit to cool down the ardor for a few seconds. "Please."

With a steady hand, John brushed into Sherlock's curls, smoothing his temple a bit, his weight supported on his elbows. Their erections were trapped between their bellies, and someone's hips, both perhaps, still undulated slowly, hardnesses pressing. There was a faint drop of moisture leaving trails on their skin. "All right. I would ask if you're sure, but ..."

"Yes, very sure. Are you?" He waited long enough for Sherlock to nod, then dipped his head for a kiss, a seal, an agreement. John rocked back on his knees, picked up the bowl by the bed. "Quite an assortment, receptacle end, ribbed, extra large, extra thin, gold. Preference?" He chuckled as he held up the extra large to Sherlock's delight, and rolled it on while Sherlock watched with warm, glowing eyes alternating between John's hands and what they were doing and John's face.

The sachet of lube was next, and as he began to set the bowl back, Sherlock seemed to have something to say. "Grab a second, if you would. It's ... yeah, it's uh, been a while."

Oddly, the comment gave John pause. Given the brazenness of the evening so far, he would have been inclined to think Sherlock did this sort of thing regularly. "Of course." Sherlock's eyes actually seemed a bit nervous, then, and John was quick to assure him. "It's all right. I'll make sure you're ..." and he let the sentence trail off. "It'll be ... we don't have to, you know."

"Oh, no. I want. But use enough." A generous application over John's sheathed erection, and more to his fingers, and Sherlock pulled back his knees. Both of them watched while John lubed up liberally, his fingers, his erection, Sherlock's body, John's finger pressing inside and spreading the cool gel. He then guided the tip to Sherlock's waiting and eager body, their eyes and hands watching for the breach, the connection, the tension. And the _sloooooooow_ glide inside, the give and stretch, the joining.

Sherlock gasped a bit, his breathing shallow and tight as the rest of him. Quietly, he huffed, "Wait." Through pursed lips, he breathed his muscles into submission, the exhale slowing down his racing heart, deliberately calming the tension.

John didn't need to be told, and he watched Sherlock's eyes now for the possibility that he would need to pull out completely if it was that uncomfortable. Sherlock took a few deep breaths, and John continued to wait. "Want me to --?" and he held off on the words while pulling back just a little bit at first.

"No." Sherlock's answer was quick and coupled with his hands holding John's bum close to him, halting his movement and preventing further withdrawal. 

"Try bearing down just a little," John said quietly, still suspended above, "while you're blowing out a breath," holding his body in submission, his arms and shoulders in well-muscled definition.

Whatever combination, and Sherlock finally relaxed, to the relief of both of them. The smile he wore was punctuated with a gleam in his eye, and he nodded slightly, guiding John's pelvis with fingertips requesting movement. "Okay," he whispered, and John echoed it even more quietly. A slow build, then, as John obliged him, coming down to rest on his elbows, their chests tight, thighs pressing, the wet slick sounds along with heavy breathing, and John's mouth found Sherlock's jaw, clavicle, coming to latch onto the lips Sherlock freely offered.

A few moments, the bed mattress too high quality for the springs to make any noise save for their movements on the sheets, and John's thrusts quickened, deepened. "God, I'm close," John uttered with rapt abandon, his tone low and thick. "You too?"

Sherlock's hand reached down, wedging his way between them, to grasp his own erection, a few pulls, then stronger, more intense, more focused, harder. Both of them, tense, coiling, the spring of impending sexual release growing tighter. The rocking motion of John's body became more demanding, sharper, less controlled, and shortly, Sherlock could feel a swelling from the inside as John grew even larger, tighter, more full followed immediately with a throbbing, a stilling of his body, a pouring out, clenching muscles and driving deep. Having paused a moment, Sherlock resumed a few strokes while John stayed still, rounding his back to give Sherlock's hand more room to move, stroke. John uttered a few urgent words of encouragement, and another few strokes with a trembling hand and Sherlock tensed, his back stilled, a low guttural 'oh' vibrating as he came. A few moments later, and Sherlock, still gasping, bucked once to gently dislodge John as he helped to then ease him off, to roll over next to him on the mattress where they laid side-by-side.

Both of them were breathing hard, sweaty, chests heaving, bodies engulfed with endorphins.

John regained his speech first. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

The staccato burst of laughter sounded disbelieving. "Seriously?" From against the pillow, Sherlock turned just his head to stare at John. There was the faint glistening about his face and chest of perspiration, eyes wide, pupils dark, an entertained smile. "That was ..." and his words trailed off as he blinked slowly, bringing a hand up to brush his sweaty fringe from his forehead.

"Incredible?" John suggested. "Amazing. Brilliant?"

"Yes. All of that, yes."

John chuckled at the moment, Sherlock's tone of expression, his shoulders trembling with mirth, the bed shaking slightly. Sherlock joined in, pursing his lips again and blowing down toward his chest in an effort to cool off. Knowing they were both sticky, he suggested, "A shower might be in order."

"Another one in my case, as you'll recall."

Raising one eyebrow as he looked down at John, Sherlock shrugged. "Seems you might again have the need?"

"True," John said, his smile sated and at ease. "I could definitely be persuaded." Stretching out flat, he closed his eyes, relaxed. "I'd imagine the shower in this suite is pretty nice, yeah?"

A devilish gleam came over Sherlock's countenance, and he grinned, boyish and happy, faint laugh lines and eye crinkles adding to the charm of his personae. "Soon as I have the strength to get out of bed, your company would be greatly appreciated." John nodded as he reached for tissues, wrapping up the condom and wiping them both off a bit, as Sherlock added, "And yes, the shower ... I think you'll like it."

Easing back against the pillow yet again, John reached out with his toe to drag up along Sherlock's leg. It was partially teasing, partly a promise, a suggestion, and hint of more to the evening ahead. "Looking forward to it."

++

They spent the rest of the evening between the shower, which was a ridiculous walk-in chrome and glass deal with overhead shower jets and various nozzles and sprays, drying off in extra large bath sheets, lounging around mostly naked, ending up eventually outside again with a midnight sampling from room service. "Bill it to my room," Sherlock had said when he ordered it, with the selections including a vintage scotch (John's request) and stroopwafels (Sherlock's self-admitted weakness).

Over the rim of his tumbler, Sherlock eyed John as they stepped out on the balcony. He'd adjusted the lighting outdoors, and they were both seated, Sherlock in a pair of lounge pants and John loosely contained inside the robe he'd worn. "Love to see you again in the hot tub. Perhaps tomorrow, we could arrange something more private. Or a cabana massage. Apparently there is a private, poolside option that can be reserved. I'll make a call in the mor--" The word trickled to nothing when Sherlock took note of John's expression. John's quiet,  _somber_ expression.

John could feel reality descend upon him as he remembered that he'd started off this weekend as an attempt to salvage his marriage. Though he didn't say anything, his expression must have darkened enough for Sherlock to realise. "Oh, sure, yeah, that's ..." John began, but Sherlock had held up a hand.

"Forget I said anything. It's fine. My apologies."

John opened his mouth again as if to protest.

"No. Enjoy the evening. Let's appreciate the moment, yeah? Tomorrow will take care of itself." Sherlock was already formulating another idea, but he took his own advice and forced his mind back to the company at hand. Hoping to reassure him, he added, "One day at a time, John, yeah?"

Sighing, John nodded, and conversation veered off into more safe subjects for a while before they adjourned to the bedroom yet again. There were a few kisses, a negotiation of how interested either or both of them were in another romp in the sheets. Finally John summed it up as he tugged Sherlock down onto the bed then reached over to turn out the bedside lamp. "Let's enjoy this, yeah? Rest up. The second time will be just as ..."

"Earthshaking."

"Yes, earthshaking, in the morning." Between the stress of the day, the earlier exertion, and the late hour plus the scotch, both fell asleep rather quickly, an easy embrace shared between them.

++

In the early morning, John awoke first, opened an eye to find himself staring at a mole on Sherlock's ribcage. This was followed shortly by Sherlock's hand coming out to shush him, quiet him, prevent him from getting up. "Too early. Sleep a bit more."

The dim light - the day still quite young - peeked in from behind the hotel window draperies. There was the faint sound of a lift in the distance, a vehicle's beeping as it reversed, delivery perhaps, and John whispered, "Yeah, be right back." After a quick trip to the loo, he did return to find Sherlock with his eyes still closed, quite groggy and reaching for him as soon as he'd lay down. A few manoeuverings, and John found himself pushed and adjusted so that he was laying on his side facing away from Sherlock. Another wriggle, and Sherlock tucked up behind him, his long, warm torso wrapping around him, a hand possessively over his waist, knees slotted in behind John's. It took a few minutes of minor adjustments, but John drifted back to sleep against Sherlock, their breathing synchronising, their joint body heat and comfortable embrace helping him find slumber rather easily.

When he awoke later, the room was much brighter. And he was alone. A quick slide of his leg to the vacant side of the bed found the empty sheets cool.

++

Sherlock was on his mobile out in the kitchen of the suite, bare feet propped up on the table, a cup of coffee at his elbow.

"Morning," he greeted Sherlock, who tilted his head up, gave a transient, flickering smile, barely looking at John.

There was a faint sheen on top of Sherlock's coffee, having obviously been left there long enough to cool and for the cream to congeal slightly. The rhythm of Sherlock's gaze in response to the scrolling of his thumb was steady, the step of a marching band, the synchronous slow beat of a heart.

"Is there more of that?" John asked as he eyed the coffee.

Sherlock raised his eyes then to stare at John and then flicked them over at the butler table, where two insulated carafes sat, an assortment of coffee cups and mugs, various sweeteners, and a chilled thermos container of sweet cream.

"Not a big talker in the morning, then," John quipped, bringing a poured cup over to the table to join him. "I can work with that, you know, and can probably carry a conversa--"

"Not necessary." He frowned. "Though most people do little else. Rest assured that if I have something important to say,  _I will say it."_

"Newspaper?" Shifting in his chair, John glanced quickly about, checking the butler table and the small cafe table.

There was a faint look of tolerant disapproval. "Go digital, John. Embrace modern technology."

John knew his jaws clenched in annoyance. So much for a nice, relaxing, intimate start to the day, getting fussed at rather than civil interaction. His mobile was still in his robe pocket, and he plugged it in to charge while he browsed. No texts, junk emails, no response from his request for Mary to let him know when she'd arrived home safely. When he set the device down, mildly annoyed, Sherlock was watching. "Everything okay?"

He flicked at the home screen again to ostensibly check the time and blatantly ignore the question. "I have to check out by eleven."

"No you don't."

"Yes, actual--" John stopped speaking as he caught Sherlock's eyes flicker to the adjoining great room. His bags had been apparently packed and delivered along with his jacket to Sherlock's suite.

"Already done. There wasn't much, and it saves you the trouble."

"Thanks. I still need to be back, this evening I suppose. See what awaits." John caught sight of his own, unadorned left hand. He'd taken the ring off prior to showering in his own room the previous day and never put it back on. "Um, did ..." He looked up to find Sherlock paying close attention to him, to the fact that he was staring at his hand.

Sherlock was nodding. "It's in a bag in your coat pocket."

"It has always meant something to me, until ... this." He gestured between them. "But now ..."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock began, then smiled. "Well, not for what happened between us, truthfully, but sorry ..."

John looked at him, wondering, watching a variety of expressions dance along his features. "What?" Sherlock was studying John, a finger to his lips, considering and contemplating. It was a serious, concerning look. "What is it? Just say it." John huffed, sensing something in the air.

"I have something to tell you," Sherlock said flatly, and John blinked. "To show you, actually. Something about Mary. You might not like it much." Sherlock blinked back, with something of a frown. "Or maybe..."

"Oh for gods sake, just tell me."

"I have some connections, you understand, access to some surveillance and the ability to do some secure searching. CCTV and such."

"Sounds sketchy. Invading people's privacy, actually." John looked over at his belongings, huffing out a breath as he shook his head at the unexpectedness of Sherlock's capabilities. "And sometimes their own hotel rooms."

"That was a favour to you. You're welcome. As to the surveillance, it is discretionary." Sherlock handed John his mobile, then. There were some photos, and John took a shaky breath as he could see quite clearly, there was a photo of Mary open. "Scroll through."

Photos. Mary with a guy. More photos. Several guys. Different men. Mary herself pictured with different hairstyles, different outfits, in different weather seasons. Varying stages of flirting, togetherness, meals shared, entering a hotel, entering an office holding hands, leaving a hotel. Recent, some not-so-recent. Enough to span quite a length of time, certainly time that overlapped their marriage. Wordless, John swiped through quite a few different images and then without a word he pushed the mobile back across the table.

"There are more." Sherlock for some reason wanted John to see them all.

"So?" he retorted. "I think that's quite enough." His stomach churned to see evidence, though he wondered if that was simply coffee on an empty stomach. He'd trusted her, her late hours, her stories, her travel. Her excuses. His own schedule wasn't all that relationship-friendly, either, and so he'd made concessions, overlooked things that apparently he shouldn't have.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again, but he sounded timid enough that John looked up sharply.

"Are you?"

"Well, sorry that apparently you didn't know."

"How did you get these?"

"It's better that you don't ask. As I said before, I have connections."

"I think I kind of knew. Suspected that she ... " He paused. "I pretended not to see."

Sherlock's eye narrowed as he looked at John. "I believe that is all you need for complete absolution. And grounds for divorce if anyone even cares about such things anymore."

With a puzzled look, John frowned at the mobile again. He felt oddly ... _nothing_. It had been over a long time ago, he surmised, and this was just the final progression, the end of the road.

Glancing over at where his belongings had been set, he shook his head, snuffling a little at the thought. "I don't suppose your connections here would like to help pack up the remnants of my life from a London flat not in my name."

Sherlock missed the sarcasm. "I'm sure something could be arranged."

"Right." John shook his head again. "Don't suppose the hotel'd notice if I just stayed here in this suite."

"Bit long of a drive for you to get to work."

"True. Joking anyway, though this is nice." Another sigh. "Well, I am going to need a place to live. Any of your connections include perhaps a reasonable flatshare?"

Sherlock smiled, a crafty, witty, genuine smile. "Perhaps. How do you feel about the violin?"

The conversation halted as Sherlock's mobile sounded, an incoming text tone reminiscent of a cavalry charge. He sat up straighter as he read the incoming text, and a disturbing excitement, a pleasure. His voice, vibrant, "From a detective who feeds me employment, seems there's a new case. A suicide. A note and a body."

"Shame, that."

"I'll be leaving as soon as can be arranged."

"Of course."

Sherlock smiled again at John, an eye raking up and down his seated form. "You're a doctor."

"Yes."

"Any good?"

" _Very_ good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then, violent deaths."

"Mmmm, yes."

"Wanna see some more?"

Instantly alert, interested, John breathed, "Oh god, yes." 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to do this with an M rating but couldn't quite manage it. It's so much harder for me to write E. The story could perhaps be a bit smoother (and longer) but I am satisfied with where it's gone, and it is as finished as it's going to get. As is my usual request, if you find a typo or a big glaring mistake, please either squint at the details or let me know (gently), and I will correct and fix. These last minute edits prior to posting make me nervous. That said, I do hope you enjoy this little AU.
> 
> This is another one of my shorter, shallower, fluffier pieces that is now complete, because I have thrown down the self-directed gauntlet to finish the WIPs before tackling a longer and more complicated work that is positively _screaming_ at me to be written. There is one more behind this one that needs a bit of editing but is mostly complete. The future big piece, though, is going to be a multi-chapter, post-season 4 tale that should prove to be a lot of fun.
> 
> Loosely inspired by the story of David and Bathsheba. The king saw her bathing, desired her, sent for her, took her, and got rid of her spouse. I can only imagine that the vision, the bathing, was quite lovely, sensual. Yes, and glistening. So naturally, _johnlock._  
>   
> 
> [Hallelujah.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fp2DDjhhb-s)


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